Slaves and Soldiers
by bowsagainstbarons
Summary: Gawain and Tristan centric story as they fight to survive their 15 years of service. Original Characters abound, but the story revolves around the knights. Combines the film with the history and legends that it glossed over.
1. Introduction

Introduction-

Hello and thank you for checking in. This is my first Fan Fiction, but not my first time writing about knights such as you shall see here. As of today, I have no real format to this story – it may seem like I'm rambling at times, and if it does seem so, you are probably right. But, my intentions are good, and I have a massive appreciation for the characters in this story.

Note: I do not own the characters in this story, save for a few romans and such, who you can have because I do not fancy them.

I defy slash of any sort, and any suggestions of it in here are merely a figment of your twisted little imagination.

This will be a Gawain and Tristan centric story, but that doesn't mean I'm going to exclude anybody. There will be plenty of Galahad, Bors, Dagonet, Arthur, Lancelot, Bedevere and Gareth. I will use and add on to scenes from the movie at some point, but never fear – it's mostly fresh ideas. I'm a slow writer, but once I start this, I'm not gonna leave you hanging for a year or three… I am taking some classes and I work, which will both interfere with the amount I post/write something, but I will make an effort if I get reviews to post more often.

Cheers,

-BowsAgainstBarons


	2. A Storm is Brewing

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"We are forty against hundreds

In someone else's bloody war

We know not why were fighting

Or what we're dying for

They will storm us in the morning

When the sunlight turns to sky

Death is waiting for its dance now

Fate has sentenced us to die."

-Garth Brooks, _Ireland_

* * *

The wind sifted through the trees and rolled over the ancient hills with an irresistible force; A storm was brewing in Briton.

But it was not the common drizzle and clouds; no, this was to be a far worse storm than many men had ever seen.

It began with the wind.

It rushed furiously across the plains and fields and forests, until it found a fortress of stone. It whispered through the ramparts, fluttering the red capes of General Fabian and his companion who stood upon them. He cursed silently; _w__hat the hell was taking __Falco__ so long?__ He should have arrived __a week__ ago with the new shipment of slaves. _The roman's dark, slanted eyes scanned the bleak horizon for any sign of them. He saw nothing.

"Why does he not come?" He hissed to the man that stood beside him. "I need more fighters! These…" Here he waved a frantic arm at the distant woods "…savages will not wait another fortnight, and my defenses are weak. I was promised the remainder of the Sarmatian horsemen from the Irish outpost two months ago, the sarmatians from the Lincoln outpost, and twenty more directly from Sarmatia. And what do I have, Captain? What do I have? Tell me!"

Caradoc, the younger and cooler of the two, calmly replied "Nothing different as of now, General." The General smote his mailed hand on the parapet. "Precisely! I have nothing! I don't even know how many these slaves are, when they arrive, or even if they will be of use to me!_ Damn_ that man! He had better have a good excuse for his delay! I have sent Castus for the southern shipment, Falco for the western, and Boreas for the eastern. _Why do they not return?_"

Caradoc stared coolly out at the dismal land they guarded, as if searching for a reply there.

"My lord General, if I may be so bold I would say this: Whoever survived the dangers of the Irish outpost must be both brave and mighty. The attack was stopped by only a handful of the resourceful men you have been promised. I think that you should trust their strength in arms, as opposed to strength in numbers. I would not think that Falco tries to delay; he is a faithful man to you. The slaves we have stationed in Ireland have learned nothing of obedience or respect of superiors; they do not respect our superior race. Falco may be having trouble traveling with slaves such as these; I pray you sent a substantial troop with him, sir?"

General Fabian remained silent, staring at the distant forest as if it would make his slaves arrive faster.

"Sir?" repeated Caradoc.

Fabian hung his head and massaged his temples, and opened his mouth to speak. As he did so, the watchman called from his post "My Lord! Riders approaching, Sir! It appears to be your slaves from Lincoln Keep sir! "

"At last!" the General muttered to himself as he began his decent from the wall. "Open the gate!" he bellowed to the soldiers.

_We shall see what Fortune brings me from the south. _

And at that, his first shipment of slaves rode through the gate, escorted by twelve guards and Captain Castus, one of his finest officers. Fabian approached the mounted men, looking over his new property.

And what he saw did not disappoint.

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	3. Lone Wolf

"The woodland trees that stand together,

They stand to him each one a friend;

They gently speak in the windy weather;

They guide to valley and ridge's end.

The kestrel hovering by day,

And the little owls that call by night,

Bid him be swift and keen as they,

As keen of ear, as swift of sight."

--Julian Grenfell, _Into Battle_

* * *

Some people have a very obvious presence– when they walk into the room and, even with your back to them, you know who they are and where they are. It doesn't necessarily have something to do with how loud they are either; you just know. 

There are others who are capable of hardly existing at all; those who can enter the room and walk up right behind you, and stand there for a good long while before they decide to let you know they are there. Usually, it is these sorts who are misunderstood as strange, wild and dangerous. Usually, this is hardly the case.

But sometimes it is.

They are also usually the people who are chosen as the best person to have on your side in a fight.

But usually, it's more that you don't want them to be on the opposing side.

Tristan's dark hair whipped around his tattooed face, revealing his seldom-seen intense eyes and hard, impassive features. His leather hauberk was laced with metal plates that still had some brown stains from the last man he had killed; hygiene was not a high standard amongst men like him. An iron collar had been clamped onto his neck, and two iron cuffs were chafing at his wrists; all the slaves from their late outpost had them. They could be easily attached to a chain for controlling the fighters—for beatings and such. His slender, curved sword hung at his back, loose in it's sheath, ready to deal death at any moment.

The lone wolf was on the move.

He rode silently through the trees, his eyes taking every single thing in, never missing a single object. It was not that he needed to be quiet; no, the roaring wind took care of that.

He was just a silent man.

The scout could hold a conversation with mere nods and shakes of his shaggy head, and give you the same information with them as he could with full sentences. When he did speak, he said what he needed to say, and then he again resumed his silence.

He was aware that this upset people; he was aware of the rumors about him having certain evil powers.

There was even one about him being the god of Death. He liked that one.

They thought that all he could say was the names of the four points of the compass and "Yeh."—his way of saying "Yes."

He was also aware that people avoided him as much as they could. This did not bother him… in fact he slightly enjoyed it; people felt the need to talk to him, or rather, talk _at_ him. He found this especially true with the Romans. They spoke to him in orders that were brief and flustered, or slowly and carefully, as if he did not understand. They never looked him in the eyes; covered with hair as they were, the men never even dared to try—they honestly thought he was evil.

_Stupid men._

Tristan could speak Latin, Gaelic, Danish and many other languages; he could also read in Latin, which was nearly impossible for a slave like him. The only people that knew this were the MacLaughlins.

To be honest, he found the only people who he genuinely liked were the MacLaughlin brothers. Maybe it was because they were slaves and sarmatians like him; maybe it was because they had grown up with him at the fort.

_They __are __good men. _

They did not ask him stupid, meddling questions about his past because they already knew; his clan name, his father, his family, where his sword came from or—and this was a constant question—what do the tattoos mean?

He had told them all this because he knew they were men that would give their lives for him and each other—there was something to be respected about that.

_They are good men._

He glanced at the trees, looking for any sign of these new enemies Gareth had named "Woads." He liked these new ones better; at the last fort there were only the graceless attacks from the northern invaders. These Woads—or Picts, to anyone but him and the MacLaughlins—had tact, stealth and grace.

But there was nothing there for him to see. He urged his horse on, and after another ten minutes, he turned back towards the southwest, where his company was camped.

He whistled for his hawk.

_He must hurry._

Another thirty minutes, and this hell-storm would be coming down on their heads.

Their new station was a two hour hard ride away.

_He must hurry._

The foul roman captain sent to fetch them had threatened to chain him to his horse for the rest of the way, should he delay in returning from his scouting.

_He must hurry._

* * *

**Hey all, sorry for the tiny little chapters. Once I get going on the story they will be longer (and hopefully more interesting for y'all.)**

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	4. Slaves and Soldiers

* * *

Chapter 3

Names and Notions

* * *

"Is there no eye to pity thee?

No strong right arm to save?

Not even for thy innocence

The cloister of the grave?"

-Mary Irving, _The__ Greek Slave_

* * *

Fabian's eyes briefly scanned over his new assets, finally coming to rest on Artorius Castus, who saluted respectfully.

"Reporting for duty, Sir."

"Well done, Castus. What of the others? Have you encountered any of them?"

"No Sir. We saw no other Romans, save in Lincoln. My men and I only went south and collected these good _soldiers_. " Replied Castus, nodding at the line of mounted Sarmatians behind him.

"_Slaves_, Castus. _Slaves_."

Artorius' eyes flashed, but he replied "As you wish, Sir."

Fabian smiled to himself as he walked up to get a good look at his slaves. _Castus, __Castus, __Castus__. What was wrong with the man? He defied slave__ry and oppression, but he upheld__ the Roman Empire__'s values__ valiantly._ Fabian took deep pleasure in tormenting Castus' values, and he did so at every oppertunity.

_But now to the matter at hand._

He walked to the first in line; a large, strong-looking man on a black horse.

Castus ordered the slaves to dismount, and then walked to stand next to Fabian.

Fabian was taken aback at the size of the man standing in front of him. Romans did not tend to run very large, and Fabian had rarely seen a man this size. He looked like he knew how to handle himself too.

"Name?"

"His name is Dagonet Amadour, Sir." Artorious said mechanically, still a little angered about Fabian's attitude towards the men—_my men_—thoughtArtorious. He felt a strong need to defend and ally himself with them. He had spoken to them and gotten into their confidence on the way back to Hadrian's Wall, but he was not about to tell Fabian what they thought and felt. The men had taken to him, and he felt as if it were his destiny to aid them in any way he could.

"Hah! A surname for a slave? Outrageous." Fabian snarled.

Dagonet shifted position, staring straight ahead, his sad eyes taking on a slightly different light than before—an angry light.

"And what is this? I ordered no _women_!" Fabian said, walking to the slave next to Dagonet. She was a pretty little redhead with a sharp nose and determined expression.

"She is Vanora Amadour, sister to Dagonet Amadour. The Lincoln fort is being evacuated—our defenses are too weak across Britain, and they are closing the more vulnerable forts. Their General sent her because she is a Sarmatian, and as such has been promised to you.

"Pretty little wench, but I have no use for her. I give her to you Castus, for your pleasure." Fabian soaked up the pained and angry look on Castus' face, and then continued down the line. Next was a dark haired man with a constant smirk on his long face.

"Name?" Fabian asked Castus.

"Lancelot Lewthwaite, late of Lincoln." Answered the slave for himself, looking Fabian in the eye. "Yours?"

Fabian's jaw tightened, and then he beat the man hard across the face with the back of his armored hand. "Learn your place, slave!" roared Fabian as the man stumbled back from the blow.

He moved down the line without a second glance, quite calm again. Castus lingered back for a moment to assure that Lancelot was alright, and then continued on with his face set in a stony rage.

Fabian liked the looks of this next one.

"Name?"

"His name is Bors De Ganis, Sir."

"Hmm…good, good. Is he a fighter?"

"Maybe you should ask him that, Sir." Replied Castus evenly.

"You, Slave! Do you fight?"

The man's dark, creased eyes held a certain destructive energy that seemed to already answer the question, but he replied in his rough, loud voice "Aye, oi' kin do jes' tha,' Sir. Anyway ya' please; strangle, stab, be'ead or wha'ever else, oi' does it good. Anyfing else ya' wants ta' know, Guv'nor?"

Fabian smirked at the man's reply, shook his head, and moved on to the next man; a lean, scarred man, looking pale and drawn.

"Name?"

" He is named Bedevere Thewlis."

"I see." He had nothing more to say on the matter. The man looked as if he had already seen too much of this life—_probably will be dead within the year_—thought Fabian.

He moved down the line again, passing by some, stopping at others, feeling their arms, checking their teeth and eyes…but only asking the names of the ones he took a genuine interest in.

"And who is this?" He said as he reached the last man, a pale, evil-looking fellow who wore rich black clothing and had dark, shallow eyes.

"This," said Castus, "is Mordred." He spoke the name as if there was a bad taste in his mouth.

Mordred gave a slow, reverent bow, and then hissed "My lord Fabian, I serve you with pride."

Fabian smirked in amusement and surprise, and then turned on his heel and barked "Bring them into the barracks and inform them of my laws and their duties. Send that wench to Castus' quarters. Double the watch for my other shipments!"

And with that, he strode into his castle as the first raindrops fell, leaving a smoldering Artorius to conduct the moving of the slaves.

Lightning flashed in the sky, and the storm began in earnest.

* * *

Okay, so I'm going agonizingly slow, but I hope you like it so far.

Yes?

No?

Lame?

Interesting?

Please review and let me know.

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	5. The Lion

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A/N: 

_Hey, sorry for the delay._

_Just to let you know, I am trying to make this as historically accurate as possible, but it's not gonna be perfect (i.e, the Roman fort in Ireland, Saxon invasions on Ireland, etc…)_

_So, that's my written apology to the history buffs out there._

_I'm trying to get this thing rolling, so just bear with me as I get started. If you get sick of waiting, just send ideas my way, or tell me things you liked or didn't like—I probably have just hit a dead end, and am scraping the bottom of the 'ideas' barrel._

_Enjoy._

* * *

"Plunging into battle to slay a hundred men

Till thirty spears pierce his thundering heart.

Transforming to a lion his brave spirit runs

Leaping up high mountain to sit under stars."

-Lion King Of Sparta

* * *

Gawain did not much hold to Romans; indeed, he hated anyone who dared to chain him, beat him or call him like one might call a dog. Furthermore, he hated anyone who forced him to do things he did not wish to do or pushed him further than his limits. But above all, he hated anyone who did anything to harm Gareth.

Since the Romans were guilty of all of the above, Gawain was tense and dangerous. He was generally very controlled and masterful of his emotions; not stoic like Tristan was, but he could control whatever he was feeling better than most men. It took a lot to push him over the edge; but when he got there, the lion inside of him sprung into action, and there was very little one could do to calm him for some time. Pain, battle and mind-games were some of the few things that could get him to become as angry as that lion he resembled.

His back stung from the yesterday's whipping; he shifted in the saddle, trying to make his heavy hauberk rest differently on his back and shoulders. Blowing rainwater from the tip of his nose, he called softly over to Gareth, who was tied by his wrist to Percival's.

"Hssst! Leanbh Deartháir!" (Baby brother)

Gareth half-yurned in the saddle and looked over at him, happy to get his mind off the rain and speak in the Irish tongue—the Romans did not understand them—and answered in an equally soft voice,

"Aye, Gawain?"

"Aon scealcaradúinngo foil Tristan?" (Any sign of Tristan yet?) 

"Níl. Níl sceal cara dúinn Dealramh Na Gréine."No. No sign of Sunshine.)

Sunshine was Gareth's name for Tristan—Lord knows why—and oddly enough, this always put a tiny little smirk on Tristan's face when the MacLaughlans called him by it.

Percival, tied to Gareth by the wrist and seated on his bedraggled horse, was staring at them like they were deranged; he didn't speak in this tongue.

Before Gawain could respond, Falco barked "Oi! Shut it, dogs! Speak words we all can understand, or don't speak at all. I know what you're saying, and its mutinous talk that I'll whip you for, should I catch you at it again! Save your breath; we move on as soon as your scout friend gets back."

"Má tú féad tuig, tá tú aonair Págánach ó Eyre. Págánach is maith liom muid." (If you did understand, you would be a pagan of Ireland. Heathens like we are,) Gareth muttered at Falco's retreating figure.

Gawain laughed with his eyes—a signature MacLaughlin trait—not daring to laugh aloud, lest he be whipped yet again.

Percival looked from one brother to the other and rolled his eyes. "You're going to get yourselves killed, talking like that."

"Oh aye?"

Gawain smiled as he watched his brother tug the rope that bound them, forcing Percival to cling to his horse, nearly falling off.

For being smaller than Percival, he could sure hold his own.

Rain fell harder, blurring Gawain's eyes and soaking through his leather jerkin, causing it to cling to his back in a most uncomfortable way. He drew his breath in between his teeth as Falco rode up next to him, slapping him hard on the back in a manner that was too deliberate to be accidental.

"Scout's back. Give me your sodding hand, slave."

Gawain belligerently complied, holding out an already raw wrist. Falco gracelessly wrapped the rope around Gawain's strong wrist and viciously knotted it tight, grinning at Gawain's barely-hidden discomfort. Keeping his dark, squinting eyes locked with Gawain's calm, blue ones, he barked out into the rain, "Scout! Here, at the double!"

Tristan rode up out of the darkness, stopping his horse squarely even with Gawain's, and held out his wrist while staring straight ahead. Falco laughed humorlessly at this silent straightforwardness, and then knotted Gawain and Tristan together, leaving about four feet of rope between them. Then he turned and bellowed with the lungpower that befits a Roman officer "We leave now! We shall not stop until we reach Hadrian's Wall! Stragglers and deserters shall be shot without scruple. Should we be attacked by the natives, fight to the death, for they shall also do so! We ride!"

They set off at a trot, Romans at the front and flank, taking the route Tristan had suggested through the forest.

Riding in silence for the next hour, Gawain mulled over the many thoughts in his brain and tried to avert him mind from the bloody stripes on his back.

_"Gawain…Gawain, my son…promise me that no matter where you go in this life you will protect your brother…Gareth You will be all he has, and… he shall be all you have. Protect his life with yours, help him in his weaknesses, and…and never…and never lose him." His dying father's face had looked up at him pleadingly from his sad little cot. "I will, Da. I will." Tears ran down his face as his watched his father—the figure of strength and security that had always been there for him—dying. "Gawain…save your tears, son. You are good man. I look at you now, and am proud that I have you as such a son. Do me proud, lad…do me proud."_

He was snapped out of his memories by Tristan of all people.

"You 'kay?"

"Aye, sunshine, I'm fine…"

"Sure? You look bad."

Contrary to popular belief, Tristan worried and fretted about the MacLaughlin lads to no end.

"Aye. I'm just bonny. Few stripes is all."

Tristan did not look convinced. He had the haibit of licking his top lip with the tip of his tongue when he was undergoing an emotion that he was having difficulty hiding—an odd trait, but when you had spent your life with someone like Tristan, you remembered anything that gave him away as human—Gareth called this "The Cover Face" or "Covering."

He leaned over and lightly touched his friend's soaked back, and made his trademark "cover face" as Gawain flinched and stiffened.

"Bonny, yeh?"

Gawain squinted and made a face somewhere between a grimace and a grin.

"Oh, aye. Just bonny."

_

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_


	6. Rolls of Thunder

**Thanks for the reviews guys.**

**I'm quite ill, so everything I do right now is going slowly. Hoping to update a chapter again soon!**

**Please review.**

**And…Enjoy.**

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An evil thought May or may not break bones.

But an evil thought Can and does break hearts.

-Sri Chinmoi

* * *

In the slave barracks, the men were getting accustomed to their new surroundings; they were surly, angry or annoyed—according to character—Lincoln had been a much finer fort than this. And it was not in nearly as precarious a situation as this either. Castus had enlightened them on the road; the Pict forces were far more numerous than their own, and they were marshaled by a brilliant strategist that the Romans had not yet seen or heard named. The open, empty lands to the south of Hadrian's Wall were sharply contrasted to the lush, dark forests to the north of the wall; however, one couldn't walk into them without being slain withing the first league of travel…the Picts were ruthless to any Sassenach.

At more pleasant, brighter Lincoln, they had been allowed to travel fairly freely throughout; here, they hardly could leave the fort unless on a mission—"On which, by the way, we regularly lose half a dozen men," Castus had confided. Rations were short until the next supply wagon came from the south; Spring was not a bountiful time here. The weather was worse here too; "Impossible!" as one slave had put it when he saw the black sky.

All in all, the men were miserable.

The other Sarmatians were mingling with the original slaves, who accepted them well enough; men murmured softly, conversing over dice or by the crackling hearth.

Lancelot heaved one of his signature sighs; a deliberate one that let everyone know he was unhappy. It sounded like it hurt his throat.

Mordred settled smugly onto the softest cot, his voluminous black cloak wrapped around him; he looked like a corpse in a shroud.

Bedevere had leaned back with his eyes closed; praying or softly singing. Nobody really cared.

Bors snored loudly on one of the rough, hard pallets; sleep was more important than standing around and moping like some of the others were.

Dagonet on the floor by the open door, watching and listening to the storm that raged outside. A quiet man, Dagonet; he spoke little because nobody cared to listen—Bors as an exception, of course—to the words he had to say.

He worried for his sister, Nora, sent to a man's quarters for his disposal. He prayed that the Roman was as honorable as he seemed to be; maybe she did have a chance.

He hugged his knees to his chest, rocking slowly back and forth. Thunder clapped viciously overhead for the hundredth time, making his ears ring. The wind blew raindrops in the open doorway, spattering him and the floor around him in spurts; he didn't mind. Another flash of lightning lit up his face, followed by a savage crack of thunder. As the noise died down, he heard footsteps approaching on the stone stairs.

He stiffened; there were two sets of feet walking.

An armored silhouette framed the doorway, then stepped inside with a smaller figure in tow.

Dagonet stood; it was Castus and Vanora.

The Roman man smiled at him, and then passed Vanora's fine-fingered hand to Dagonet's.

"here, Dagonet. She has not been harmed, I assure you." Castus' strong face smiled reassuringly up at him. Dagonet nodded and gave a soft smile. The man had taken the trouble to remember his name. And had returned his sister unharmed. _What kind of roman is this?_

"I will try and arrange to have her working at the tavern. She would be safer as a healer, but she tells me that she has no medical skills." Continued Castus. "life is hard for women here. I'm sorry there is nothing more I can do for her at the time being."

"Thank you, Sir."

"If you wish, I can arrange for her to lodge with the old healer." Said Castus, looking up at the distant men on the other end of the barracks, who shot the occasional glance at Vanora's fine little body.

"Please do, sir. I would be forever in your debt."

"It is my chivalric duty to aid those under my protection. Return to your rest, man; your sister is safe."

Dagonet reached down and hugged his only family member tightly and whispered "Nora, trust him. He will keep you safe." The little redhead looked up at him with a smile dancing on her lips. " Who says Oi' need pertectin' in the first place?"

Dagonet smiled. "I do. Now go; he is waiting."

The two figures disappeared again into the rainy half-light. As Dagonet turned away from the door, he lifted his sight.

Mordred leered silently out at him from under his cloak; he had watched the entire encounter.

Blinking his black eyes once, he smiled crookedly at Dagonet, and then lowered his cloak down, shrouding his evil face once again.

Dagonet laid his head down, facing towards Mordred's cot.

He did not wish to turn his back on that one.

Not for a moment.

* * *

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	7. Facing Off

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**DUCK AND COVER, PEOPLE!! BOWSAGAINSTBARONS IS BACK IN ACTION!**

**Haha. Hi guys. Here's that update. Hope easter was a grand auld time for everyone.**

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"_In formidable times_

_See dangerous eyes_

_Shining and reflecting_

_On events gone awry_

_And to terrible silence_

_Go the sweet lullabies"_

-Stephen W. Cote, _Dangerous Eyes._

* * *

At the same time Dagonet watched the storm, the Irish division was out in it. The Romans were pushing them through the forest at a breakneck pace, hoping to pass the heart of the Pict's forestland in the dark and rainy night. Tristan (and therefore, Gawain as well, tied to him) was constantly consulted for their direction of travel, riding up at the head of the company. The cold rain was beginning to cool Gawain's back; he was more alert and conscious of their surroundings than before. For instance, he realized that the rain that was thundering down on them was actually being slowed by the umbrella of the forest canopy; it was raining harder out in the open.

_I hate the place already. The rain itself seems evil._ He thought. As much as he may have gone through while living the brutal, spartan life in Ireland, he was already longing for it. He was just now realizing what it had been to him; _home_.

He suddenly snapped out of his thoughts and stiffened, reining in his horse. Tristan halted and turned in the saddle when he felt the rope go taut.

"_Gawain, what is it_." The scout had no rise or fall to his voice, but it was as close to a question as he could get.

Gawain glanced at the treetops, scanning, and then answered in a calm voice "tá said i an coil forscáth _They're in the trees_.

The scout snapped his head up at the trees, his shaggy wet hair whipping against his face. There was nothing but wind roaring in the trees.

Gawain clarified himself with one syllable.

"Woads."

The scout glanced up again, seeing nothing.

"There's nothing there, _Cuchulainn_."

Gawain shook his golden mane stubbornly. "No. We have to leave the forest… I just know they are there. I think I saw one of them. They will attack in here where we are at a disadvantage."

Tristan looked at his friend and blinked once.

And then nodded.

They whirled their horses, managing to remain parallel and free from getting tangled, and they rushed the few kilometers back to the company, chased by a heavy wind that was rolling after them like a wild thing.

* * *

"What news, slave?" Falco roared over the intensifying wind. The man simply could not have been louder; Gawain could swear that he wanted them all to get killed.

"Woads. We believe they are going to ambush us 20 kilometers ahead." Came the Scout's non-fluctuating reply. The Roman looked at him in a superior way, and looked half-tempted to beat him to the ground (he always had such a look on his face, but at this particular moment it was more pronounced.) As if just struck with a realization, he furrowed his brow and looked accusingly at Tristan, who was giving him an unreadable look from behind his hair. Falco leaned forward in the saddle, glowering. "Speak the noble tongue or be _damned to hell_! _What _is going to ambush us? The barbarian Picts?" His voice held an undisguised hatred for just about anything in exsistance, but especially the two dangerous Sarmatians before him, slowing his journey up.

The Scout nodded, his hair showering water everywhere. Gawain glanced about anxiously, scanning for their invisible enemies. "Very well. You, Slave!" Falco barked at Gawain, "You will ride in front. Do not speed your horse's walking; we need you to be the bait." The Roman captain grinned, and added as an afterthought "If you run like the coward you all are, I will personally excecute your sweet little…ah, what 

is it you called him? Baby Brother, I do believe. I can explain his death quite easily to Lord Fabian; the lad was an incapable fighter, and he was killed by the Picts. What a shame that would be!" his raspy voice was crooning in mock-storyteller's voice, telling Gawain what would happen to Gareth if he failed to walk his horse through the ambush site. He stared Gawain in the eyes, a cool smirk resting on his creased mouth.

Lightning illuminated the Sarmatian man's strong face, the silver light tracing his bold cheekbones, shimmering on his wet, golden hair and making his normally placid blue eyes an eerie, haunting gray as he locked them on Falco's slanted brown ones. Tristan, silently watching the two, decided that no two men could be more different; Gawain was big and broad, while Falco was skinny and weasel-like. While one was made of heart, moral, courage and sacrificial conscience, the other was made of hate, conceit, corruption and selfishness. Though it was not a particularly long-lasting or melodramatic moment, Tristan knew that this image would burn itself into his head; the leonine hero locking eyes with the foul Roman, commanded to face death. The moment was ended when thunder pealed fiercely overhead, and Falco blinked. He looked back at Gawain and then quickly looked away, swallowing once. When he looked back again, he had regained his lofty snarl and appearantly had found his voice as well; he hastily barked at the Sarmatians to get moving again. When they had done so, and had disappeared into the rain once again, the roman took a deep breath; that miniature space of time had introduced something new to him: Fear.

He had never feared anyone because he had always been in a higher position of power than others. Respect? Oh yes. Fabian was like a demi-god in his eyes. He had respected Caesar; never even saw the man, but he had respected him enough to serve him on this hell-island and other places, shuttling slaves from place to place.

But fear? No. This Irish man—actually the both of the slaves, the Scout and…that one—had caused him to succumb to the icy clutch that had threatened every time he had so much as looked at them. But the blue eyed man had a stare in which he had seen everything; pain, courage and black, black hatred. The hatred he had seen was enough to strangle him. He shuddered, and pushed it from his mind. That man had better die; if not in this battle, he would see it done before his time of service was done! Turning, the Roman barked orders heavily mixed with curses to his few soldiers—and slaves—to prepare for the ensuing attack.

_Damn that blue-eyed Irishman. Damn him!_

* * *

**Okay, so this is taking sooo long to get posted! This next one should have some good old fashioned action in it though…hang in there! Don't throw in the towel yet…more to come soon, promise! **

**I'm planning on writing this next chapter tomorrow afternoon, but as you know, stuff comes up. I really am aching to get into the thick of all this, but what's a story without a base? Nothing. So hang in there guys (if you havn't given up on me and left already) I'm going to be typing till for you guys my fingers turn into bloody stumps, starting soon.**

**(Warrior salutes and bows) You have my word, my leige.**

* * *

**Alright:**

**Q #1: Do you want/like the poetry at the beginning? **

**Q #2: And what about the Irish-Gaelic in there? Still good? (Let me know—your reviews will affect how everything turns out.)**

**Q #3: Is the story fairly clear? Sometime I forget that I didn't mention something yet; LET ME KNOW!**

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	8. First Blood

_Author's Note: I Don't own any of the characters that are in the King Arthur movie. Otherwise, I would have alot more money and alot less time._

_With that said, let's get on with the chapter._

* * *

**First Blood**

* * *

"Now the fog is deep and heavy  
As we forge the dark and fear  
We can hear their horses breathing  
As in silence we draw near  
There are no words to be spoken  
Just a look to say good-bye  
I draw a breath and night is broken  
As I scream our battle cry."

- Garth Brooks, _Ireland_

* * *

Tristan and Gawain rode in silence; what was there to say?

The woads had not yet attacked, but their hostile presence was almost overpowering.

There was the faintest hint of a grey dawn, but the gargantuan storm held sway, black and forbidding as before; actually, it was quite worse. They had been traveling in this fashion for hours, but had not relaxed or halted; every moment, they expected attack.

Suddenly, there was a single birdcall over the rising wind; a signal, Tristan knew; what would a bird be doing in such a hellstorm? Even in this strange land, the birds surely weren't that different from those of Ireland.

They kept their horse's gaits checked and controlled, but the steeds sensed their masters' uneasiness and became tense as well, rolling the bits in their mouths and lifting their feet in a dancing, shuffling gait that revealed how nervous they were. Gawain tugged their wrist-rope gently, and nodded towards a patch of bracken, which shuddered briefly from something that was not of the wind's doing. The wind seemed as if it were being summoned from the heart of the forest; there was an evil to the wind that both men silently dismissed as work of the Druids; their upbringing in Ireland had taught them many things, including a strong belief in the supernatural. The fell wind would rise to a mighty roar, lasting for minutes and then suddenly in a matter of seconds, drop down to a dead quiet whisper that belied the storm.

The wind did so now; it was dead quiet, and only the faintest of rustles could be heard from the foliage. In the distance, Tristan could hear the crashing and thrashing of leaves as the Roman brigade—_cattle herd_—marched through the forest, heedless of the noise and disturbance. Even the slaves on foot were quieter than the Romans; they had gathered their chains that connected their wrists to the slave behind and in front of them, silencing the loud jangle for fear of disturbing the natives.

The two Sarmatians were now passing the position Gawain had spotted the movement at. Tristan too, felt the silent presence that lingered there. He scanned the trees with a flick of his eyes. _There!_ He had seen a man's blue hand slither back behind a tree, holding a dark bow for a split second. _They wait. We come. If this be my death, I die well_. He looked to Gawain, who nodded to him and murmured

"_Cad tá tinneas ach cad muid mothú?_ (What is pain but feeling?)

_Cad tá Éag ach scóp?__(__What is Death but freedom?)_

_Na fir o' an allta__talamh tu muid;__ (Men of the wild land are we;)_

_Níl eile o' an lann cóisir muid mothú."__ (No fear of the Blade do we feel.) _

The lion gave him a fleeting half-smile; this stanza was something his father had told him, and he used it often. Tristan gave the smallest of smirks—he never smiled—and drew his sword with the wicked _ssssinkk! _that he was so famous for; the rumors of him being a death-god weren't all wrong. They continued on to the sound of the wind, sweeping up again into its deafening roar; a _Drakar_ of living wind, bent on destruction.

Seconds became tense minutes. Tristan was not fooled; he spotted flickers of motion in the trees.

Ares' muscles were rigid as a spring beneath him; the horse knew when a fight was coming.

They pressed on.

The roar of the wind died down to its eerie silence again. A branch snapped somewhere in the murky half-light. Lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a resounding _Crraack!_ of thunder. Behind them, there was a wild cry as one of the few mounted soldiers lost control of his panicked horse. The man howled and cried out in alarm as the beast bolted down the narrow path, straight towards the two men, whose horses were taking up the entire way. Loud shouts of alarm came from the rest of the company as the roman inadvertently charged towards Tristan and Gawain, his horse wild and panicked. The two warriors tried edging their way from the path to clear the way, but the woods were extremely thick through this section, and the men's wrists were tied together. The wild animal was a matter of feet from them when it shied and careened off into the trees, crashing out of sight.

A matter of seconds later, Falco came galloping up behind them, flushed and angry. "To hell with him! He may as well have heralded out presence!" Tristan smirked inwardly at this. _I could say the same for you, Sassenach. _Falco peered into the trees, searching for the lost horse and rider. "Where has the bastard gone?" As if for an answer, the wind began rising again, howling a supernatural dirge through the swaying, creaking trees. There was a crash in the forest ahead of them, followed by a distant, echoing whinny.

They heard hoof beats drumming furiously up ahead.

Gawain hefted his short javelin, ready to for the devil himself.

Tristan muttered briefly in a foreign language.

The wind rose to it's fullest, keening like a druid in the dark woods.

And from the woods on the path ahead of them came the horse, running frenziedly towards them.

On its back was the rider.

His head had been hewn off.

* * *

Just a quick one today; after this, I can do the battle. I just wanted to have a bit more practice for the characters and the setting; and besides, I'm sure it can't hurt you guys to get more of a look at them.

I'm thinkin I should have another this weekend. (yeah, yeah…I know. It'll be a longer one, honest!)

Enjoy and _please-oh-please_ **review**!

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	9. The Storm Strikes

* * *

"_Oh great warrior of the madness  
glory of men's savagery arrested madness  
Roman prisoners were called free slaves  
headless horsemen mindless men  
carrying the heads of men their battles win_

_The moral of these men was not in thought  
it was a great battle they only fought  
free to rage even naked upon the turf..."_

_ .com/items/1003135-poetry-celtic-warrior._

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The First Fray Against the Picts

(or Woads--Gareth begs to differ.)

* * *

The horse came towards them, almost as if driven by the infernal wind that followed it. It thundered past them with its headless rider still on its back, swaying and pitching in the bloody saddle. The wind roared in their ears, daring them to continue another step into it. Falco drew and lifted his sword, signaling the troops that were halted within sight behind them. With the foliage whipping across their armor, the twenty-odd Romans approached in two ranks behind Falco and the two Sarmatians, shields aligned in a wall and spears held rigidly to the front. Gawain, while he hated Rome and all she stood for, could never cease to be impressed by the discipline the soldiers had in battle; they moved as one. _Which could be their downfall, _He thought to himself as he hefted his javelin, knuckles white. A dispatch runner, a young Roman who looked to be no more than sixteen, clamored over to Falco, who bent in the saddle and yelled orders into the boy's ear to be heard over the wind. The boy nodded dutifully and ran back to the slaves, who had been inadvertently created a half-circle, waiting and watching. Unlike the Romans, these scrappers would survive any way they could; to hell with elaborate commands and tactics… they were used to surviving alone. The boy said something to Gareth, who looked the most like a leader out of all of them. Gareth nodded briefly and relayed the orders to the slaves, both to those mounted and those chained in lines. The slaves looked bleakly at the dark-haired MacLaughlin, but they complied nonetheless; what else could they do? They formed three single-file lines, horsemen on the outside lines and chained slaves in the inside line. Tristan and Gawain fell in at the rear of this simple _and_ _suicidal _formation, weapons ready. Though tense, a few of the slaves were grinning; not in a pleasant way, but more with demon energy that filled their bodies as the intensity grew. When they were all standing uneasily in formation, Falco placed himself behind his squadron and in front of the slaves—at the center, where he was least likely to be attacked.

_Sassenach Coward. _Gawain thought, remembering the brave chieftains of Ireland, charging fearlessly into battle at the head of their men.

"COMPANY FORWARD," bellowed Falco, veins standing out on his neck, "READY… AND MARCH!"

Gawain looked at the trees, hardly able to distinguish their tops because of the blackness of the sky. At the next flash of lightning, he saw the figure of a man in the treetops; at the next flash, there was nothing. He glanced up to the front of the slave row at Gareth, and silently nodded a potential farewell to his back; in this life, a man could only live as long as his skill with the blade and the will of the gods permitted. Few were blessed with farewells.

Then the wind stopped.

Every man held his breath.

And then…it began.

An arrow came streaking out of the charcoal sky, burying itself in the unprotected heart of a slave right next to Gawain. The man gave a short bark of surprise and clutched the arrow, falling to the ground amidst the muddy manacles. As if this was a signal, arrows then came ripping through the sky from all angles, taking a toll on soldier and slave alike. Bellowing at the top of his lungs, their raging commander soon formed his soldiers in their renowned diamond pattern, blocking the arrows from striking the Romans. The slaves however, were in the open, laid bare to the raking volleys of their invisible adversaries; furthermore, the ones on foot were chained together by their ankles, unable to move unless they did so in a unit. The horses shifted and danced beneath their riders, beginning to panic as the men began to shout and yell in confusion; meanwhile, though the mighty shield formation held, the Romans were shouting and baying commands to retaliate. But at what? Their opponents were like smoke, invisible amongst the dark foliage. The wind suddenly rose again, rolling through the trees towards them; in the same moment the wind began, the arrows ceased to fly from the surrounding forest, leaving them to regroup. The Romans mechanically made a formation for advancing under shield cover, while the slaves were temporarily forgotten. Gawain knew that the only reason the arrows had stopped was the wind; for what arrow could fight a hell-bound wind like this and still strike its target? Swinging his blade down with a growl, he severed the rope binding his arm to Tristan's, leaving him free to face whatever came at them with both hands. Beside him, Tristan's sword was in its sheath, replaced by his vicious Sarmatian bow, loaded and ready. Glancing up ahead, he was relieved to see that Gareth had gotten through the hail of arrows unscathed, and was now regrouping his fellow slaves into a ramshackle cluster behind the score of Romans. The wind ebbed down again, and the company looked about them warily, weapons held tightly, shields locked together tightly. There was a terrific crash as a bolt of lightning raked down and struck a tree in the forest with sickening force, dazzling their eyes and causing the horses to panic and balk. An impossibly loud roar of thunder ensued, reaching not only their ears, but also the core of their very bodies, thrumming through them like the quickening of their own hearts. As the furious clamor faded, they became aware of another noise, not of the forest…

It began as the thunder faded, rising in a horrible, keening bellow of defiance and hate, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. It was the battle cry of The Merlin, high chieftain of the Britons.

The Merlin's cry went on and on, sounding like a wounded beast and a tourtured soul, freezing the Romans in a moment that seemed almost unearthly. The mounted slaves knew this sound to be an omen of warriors attacking, and hefted their weapons, forming a protective circle around the unarmed foot-bound slaves. The cry was joined by a multitude of other defiant bellowing, and suddenly, the blue demons were upon them. They came from all around, charging through the company from every angle with devastating ferocity. The circle of slaves were hard pressed from every side, having no shields to block them.

It was as if the Otherworld had cursed them.

Tristan swung from Ares and sent him running; why risk the Picts taking his animal? He dispatched a young warrior as he did so, smoothly sending the beardless fighter to his death. Gliding on, he did the same to three more with quick strokes, never locking blades with one of them; his footwork and grace creating the dance of Death. As he slit another man's throat, he heard a scream that snapped his head towards it; that was no man's voice. It was a woman. Whirling about, his keen eyes soon spotted her, tangled in the chains and lying on her back, trying to scramble away from an advancing Pict who had his javelin aimed for her heart. _Stop screaming and deal with it, woman_. He thought as he cast about for more victims for his blade. He glanced back to where the slave woman was fumbling desperately with the manacles, sobbing in terror as the man was advancing. She had no means of escape, chained to the bodies of her comrades as she was; he was the only one who could save her. He was generally not a model of chivalry, so he was surprised as he found himself _wanting _to help and save her. Lunging into action, Tristan had time for only one fleeting thought before he reached them. "_Damn you, Gawain. You've had a bad influence on me."_

Meanwhile, the MacLaughlin in question was unhorsed in the confined and chaotic melee; though a good horseman, he could not have stayed on for long.

Gringolet lunged backwards, avoiding a spear swipe to his face, and in doing so the horse slammed Gawain's raw back partially against a tree, sending him tumbling backwards with a bark of agony. Landing in a roll and springing to his feet, the warrior lunged at the nearest Pict and thrust at the man with his javelin. His adversary was a skilled battler and parried the attack with his spear, whipping the butt of the shaft up towards Gawain's face. Whipping up with his left hand, Gawain caught the shaft just before it contacted his head, spun with his back to the native, and rammed his javelin ferociously into the man's bare stomach. As the Pict doubled over, the MacLaughlin wrested the long spear from the native's failing grasp and spun once again to face his enemy. The man's eyes turned skyward and he crumpled to the ground with a choking sigh. Gawain then whirled about to find a massive warrior leaping out of nowhere at him, sword already swinging for his neck. Cursing, he leapt sideways from the blow, he felt the blade's tip graze his jerkin. He sent his borrowed spear at the man's head as soon as the destroying swing went wide. Gawain never missed with his spear, and at this close of a range there was no way he could possibly do so. The man's leather-capped head snapped back with the spear protruding from his throat, and the body fell lifelessly to the ground. Roaring, Gawain rushed forward over the body and clashed with the next fighter. As he did so, the arrow hit.

Gareth had just downed another fighter when he saw it happen. Tossing his head up as he delivered the killer blow, his eyes fell on his big brother's figure, slaying like CuChulainn himself. Bounding over his adversary's carcass, he started towards Gawain to band together with his brother. Suddenly, a goose-feather arrow struck Gawain from behind, low in his left shoulder and protruded out to his front. Bellowing as if the arrow had hit him instead, Gareth charged to his brother's aid, whipping his spear into the former adversary of Gawain. He closed the distance between them in a matter of seconds and laid his hand on Gawain's arm as he fell to his knees.

"Gawain!" cried the dark MacLaughlin. "Gawain, up! Gettup lad! Please!" As if in response, Gawain growled back his pain and rose to his feet, swaying slightly.

"Okay, aye?" Gareth implored, nodding briskly as if he could convince his brother of the fact.

"Aye." Gawain grated out lowly, gritting his teeth.

Another arrow came hissing towards them, sticking into the earth between Gareth's booted feet.

Barking with a grim laugh, Gawain managed to smile.

"Lucky dog."

Gareth grinned and hefted his spear.

"Luckier dog than you!"

Tristan whipped out his dagger and flicked it from his hand in a blur; this was his only shot. He wasn't worried about it hitting its mark…he was only hoping it would reach it in time.

It did, and it hit hard. The blade rammed into the man's armpit up to its hilt, straight into the heart. The warrior continued a few paces and fell face first onto his would-be victim, covering her small frame entirely. The scout arrived a few seconds after his blade did, and hauled the bloodied body from the chained form of the girl.

She stared at the lone wolf in a state of silent shock, scuttling backwards as far as the chain would let her. She was scared of him. _Rightfully so_. The bodies of the dead slaves on her chain line were acting as grisly anchors, rendering her unable to flee. Tristan swung the blade in a vicious arc, jarring the rusty manacles free from her ankles. Ripping the blade from the dead warrior, the scout spiked it into the ground next to her.

Leaning his tattooed face in close to her, he looked her dead in the soul with his half-hidden eyes.

"_Save_ _yourself next time_."

With that, he leapt away to deal death to the blue warriors, leaving a bewildered and chastened young woman behind him, mouth agape.

The attack raged on until the tempestuous wind arose from its brief respite. Even as the leaves began to rustle, an eerie blast from the Merlin's horn sounded a retreat, calling the men of the forest back into the dark void of the trees. Tristan looked around, calculating the casualties as he loped towards the Roman troops. Not bad, but this fight wasn't over yet of he knew any better.

Men defending their land don't just walk away.

The Romans were now formed in their ranks, and Falco now ordered them to commence forward. Looking back upon the group of slaves, he bellowed at them to follow; whoever was stupid enough to remain deserved their deaths anyways. Turning his back on them, he trotted his horse behind his men, shield held high and face impassive. Their objective was to get out of the trees and into the open where the natives would lose the element of surprise, and hopefully their taste for a fight. Seeing this, Tristan cast his dark eyes about for the MacLaughlin brothers, so as to get their sorry tails moving; nobody knew how much time they had before their attackers resumed their efforts. His eyes easily found Gareth helping Percival to his feet. _That one is still alive,_ he thought. _Now for the other one_. Then he saw Gawain slowly swinging onto Gringolet's saddle, and his heart skipped a beat. The man had an arrow protruding from his back! Bounding over to him, Tristan called the MacLaughlin warrior's name. Gawain's head snapped up and looked his way, breaking into a pained half-smile at the sight of his tattooed friend.

Tristan was not impressed, and showed it by making his cover face.

"Hurry CuChulainn," said the Scout, "we have no time. Woads will be after us with those again soon." He gestured at the arrow in Gawain's shoulder. The wind whipped his hair around the Scout's face, stinging his eyes and making it hard to see, but he pointed his friend towards the armored backs of the Romans. After Gawain was persuaded to move in their direction, Tristan turned to the rest of the slaves. Gareth had severed the chains connecting the feet of the captives, and had them all moving down the path after the soldiers. Tristan's foot struck something on the dark forest floor. Looking down, he saw it was a dead Woad with a bow in his curled fist. Thanking the goddess Ma, he picked it up and dragged the arrows from the corpse's quiver. _Another weapon_. He turned on his heel and joined his comrades in their flight from the forest.

Falco soon summoned the Scout to the front and had him lead; the Roman was disoriented and lost in this supernatural place. As they marched at double-pace, the trees began to thin. Before the company stretched the plains of Britain, jagged and dismal as the clouds that roiled above them.

Falco's brain flooded with relief; he was nearly in civilized country again. _No more stubborn slaves of Eire,_ He thought, _to drag by the neck across the sea!_ He was nearly at the Wall of Hadrian, where he could report to Fabian and be done with this hellish mission. _Pagan-tongued killers, these Slaves with dark powers and stone hearts_…his thoughts were cut off as a final volley of arrows were launched from the Picts; the demons had followed them and not attacked. _Jupiter knows why_ _they didn't_, he thought as his five archers returned a pitiful volley to the trees. Not a man fell from the arrows on either side, and soon the company had gotten out of bowshot. What drove these blue pagans to attack and then stop so suddenly? The captain spat out a curse and then called his orders to the slaves and soldiers. "slaves in front, where I can see you!" the remaining slaves numbered twenty-two, six of whom were impedingly wounded. He had started out with twenty-nine, and almost all of them were accomplished warriors. Fabian would not be pleased. Falco ordered the horsemen to be bound by their wrists again, seeing as they had all cut their bonds when trouble started. "Don't be gentle about it," shouted Falco as he trotted over to the scout and the two irish brothers, "I want them to know that they aren't going anywhere without us." All three slaves looked at him with distaste, but said nothing. The big muscular one had an arrow sticking out of his shoulder, and looked like Hades himself. Falco sneered at the three and then commenced to tie the three of them together, Gawain in the middle. "This way," grated Falco as he savagely knotted the rope, "he won't be doing any falling and slow us down." He savored the look on Gawain's face as his left arm was jerked by the rope. Pure agony.

It served the young upstart right.

Ten more miles, and then they would be at their new post.

Gareth bitterly hoped that they would get a new commander as well.

They soon would.

He was already waiting for them.

* * *

Kept you hanging long enough, huh?

My bad.

I'm still here, and I intend to keep this story going...no gurantees as to how often I'll update though.

Enjoy!

* * *


	10. The South Wall

A/N:

Well first, I must give my most sincere apologies. I was nearly sick when I looked at how long it had been since an update. Hopefully, you all may find it in your hearts to forgive me someday. In my defense, let me say I had my fair share of setbacks this past year that have withheld me from updating this sooner: being on a college sports team, the mountains of homework that only a private college could justify, multiple deaths in the family, and a large amount of art commissions coming my way have certainly taken their toll.

But I have made good my word, as I promised not to forsake you. I just…put this on the back burner, so to speak. College resumes again in August, so I have no inkling of how often I'll be able to update. But I vow to you that I SHALL finish this story…it may take awhile, but just view it like wine: it gets better the longer it waits. I pray.

This chapter DOES have a purpose, believe it or not. It may seem like it is meandering, but there is a reason behind all of this. With this one, I wanted you all to see Arthur—currently Artorius—and the beginnings of his inner struggle of his loyalty to Rome against his loyalty to what is good, just and right. This will develop.

I also wanted you to spend more time with Gareth, as he is a character we are not as familiar with…yet.

* * *

Besides that, I just have a few things to point out before I let you get back to the story:

-**Use of the Irish language**: I've decided that I'm keeping it. People have generally responded to it positively, I enjoy working with it, and it adds a little more depth to everything: why WOULDN'T you speak in the language of the land you've spent most of your life in?

-**The MacLaughlins/their Irish background**: I was actually surprised at how much this bothered some people. Here I thought that I had proven to you all that I knew what I was doing. Believe me; I know these histories, literature, mythologies, theologies, languages, cultures, periods, and legends backwards and forwards. I beg you to TRUST ME. Besides, it wouldn't be in the tradition of a true Arthurian tale unless the readers were sitting there going "Hey…wait. Where the hell did you get THAT knight? You're kidding, right?"

-**The Angsty Gawain Problem:** Somebody asked why Gawain was being so dark, angsty, and depressing. Lets just say he'll be more like the man we all know and love once he's feeling better. I don't know about you, but I can't say that I'm particularly friendly after being whipped, shot, and dragged across England in the dark. Worry not, our Gawain is going to be himself again...and also remember this tale is set before the film takes place. Characters develop.

-I've begun **adding** **more terminology** in there (I.e., _Milites_, _Hibernia, Romanitas, etc…_) this is to make it more believable… for me, at least. Let me know if I'm giving you too much to chew on at once. I would be using Latin in there too, but I think that it is too early on in the story to decide if I want to go there yet. Besides, technically speaking, every word the Romans speak is in Latin, the common tongue in this era. It would be a bit redundant to use it as much as I use Irish. Pity.

Anyways, unless you don't recognize the language, assume they are speaking in Latin.

-**Roman occupied Ireland**: this really hurts to twist history around so much. Ireland was never occupied by Romans, and so it chafes me to do it. But I had to. Otherwise, we wouldn't have the beautiful setup for the classic Tristan/Isolde/King Mark(Fabian) tragedy, or as much color for Gawain (and his parallel to Cuchulainn) and Gareth, or…or…or…oh there's so much I want to say here. All in good time.

-**Let it be known: **hear ye, hear ye! Ready for a shocker? **I KNOW WHERE SARMATIA IS.** And I also know where Ireland is. A number of people have attacked this aspect about the story. Trust me, if I didn't know where these places were, then I would have no right to be writing this story. Rest assured…If I don't know something, I go and research it.

Speaking of which, if you have info you would find interesting to integrate into this story, I would love to take a look at it.

-**Thank you **to all of you for the reviews, as it is good to have input from everyone about what they think of a character, or how well I am relaying info, or whatever else might come up. You guys are great.

So, Brothas and Sistahs, without further ado…I give you…

A new chapter!

* * *

"_Good against evil, youth shall strive with age,_

_ Life against death, and light against the dark, _

_Army with army, foe against another, _

_Enemy fight with enemy for land, find cause for crime. _

_Ever the prudent man Must think about the fighting in this world;_

_ Felon must hang, and justly pay the price _

_Because he first did crime against mankind. _

_Only God knows whither the soul shall go, _

_And all the spirits which shall turn to God _

_After the day of death and wait for judgement _

_In God's embrace. What is ordained to come_

_ Is dark and secret, only know to God _

_The saving Father. None comes back again_

_ To these abodes who here may truly tell _

_To men what the Lord God's decree may be, _

_The home of the victorious, where He lives._"

[_Anonymous Gnomic Verse, translated by_ Richard Hamer]

* * *

-The South Wall-

* * *

Centurion Lucius Artorius Castus awoke before the sun each morning for prayer and meditation.

This morning was no different.

He sat groggily on the edge of his bed, staring at the faintly glowing coals of last night's hearthfire.

Rising from his low cot, he strode over to the water bucket in the corner and knelt, splashing water on his unshaven face to retrieve his drowsy mind from the fog of sleep. The water, chilled by the night weather of north Britannia, soon cleared his senses. He shuffled on his knees to the hearth and meddled with the coals, and soon had a small fire illuminating the room. Standing up, Artorius walked to where his shaving blade rested and commenced to scrape it slowly across his strong jaw, meticulously shaving off his short stubble.

_Perhaps someday I will give up this constant fight and grow a beard_, he thought to himself, squinting at his work in the dull reflection of his small copper mirror. He smiled to himself, amused at the thought of how he would look with one. _Ridiculous_.

During his military training, he had been constantly reminded that military officers who were born of Rome were not to allow their faces to be shadowed with whiskers.

It was considered unseemly and barbaric.

He felt mild resentment at this stringent rule, but fulfilled the routine daily out of forced habit.

In contrast, the auxiliaries and legionaries often grew scruffy beards, probably because shaving was arduous, slightly hazardous, and time consuming. But perhaps the underlying reason they grew them was because beards were synonymous with many of their homelands, and were considered by many as the symbol of manhood. The majority of the men were from the many races conquered by Rome; in fact, the auxiliaries had not even earned Roman citizenship. Thracians, Spartans, Sarmatians, Carthaginians, Gauls and numerous other nations were joined into the ranks of Rome, and though they were forced to leave behind almost all of their cultural freedom, beards often prevailed over Rome's discipline—especially among the auxiliaries.

Still staring in the mirror, Artorius' bright eyes grew somber once more.

Even though it was just a subtle act of not shaving, the Milites stubbornly showed their hope and loyalty to their true nations.

_Though torn from their lands, these men still hold more patriotism than any true Roman will ever experience. _

He suddenly felt sad.

_Why can't I have that?_

He wanted to take pride in Rome as much as the Spartans took pride in their homeland. To long for his land as much as the Gauls longed for theirs. To strive for Rome as the Thracians strove for their native soil. The Picts, rejecting the offer of _Romanitas_ from the Holy Roman Empire, fought like demons to defend their land and to rid it of the new civilization. Why could he not fight and believe like that?

_Why can I not love like that?_

His father was a Roman and he himself had dwelled within the city since he was eleven years of age. He risked his life daily for the Empire—should that not make him fiercely loyal to Rome?

Sighing, he tried to rid himself from such troubling ruminations; he would not allow his thoughts to continue, knowing full well that his mind would walk the paths of Treason if he let it.

Though he shied away from the idea, he felt in his heart that Rome's mask been removed on this island, revealing her monstrously distorted face for what it truly was.

_Good men are treated like dogs. _

_Women are abused and unprotected._

_Homelands are taken. _

_Peace is destroyed._

_Cultures are lost._

_And all because of Rome and her greed._

_Injustice is our crown in Britannia, and the land itself screams beneath our tyranny._

_It must stop. _He shook his head. _No..._this_ must stop._

"What blasphemy does the Devil whisper in your ears, Castus?" he said quietly to his reflection.

Turning sharply on his heel, he walked over to his table where his armor laid waiting. With well-practiced hands fastening the familiar buckles, he began preparing himself for the difficult day ahead: the second group of soldiers may arrive, while the first group was about to begin their very first day of duties.

The Lincoln troop—for lack of a better word—was assigned to him, which made him glad. And, if the Hibernian troop arrived today, Fabian would probably put them under his command as well. He did not relish the idea of trying to control the legendary company from Hibernia, but was determined to take on the task should he be ordered to do so.

_Just as well; the fewer men Fabian puts under Falco's command, the better._

Now that was one thought he felt no guilt for.

Falco was cruel and abusive to his men, and Artorius hated the black sinner for it with all of his heart.

After fastening his crimson cloak upon his shoulder, he took his crested helm under his arm and walked from his quarters in the direction of the chapel.

This day, he would especially pray to the Lord to grant him patience and to preserve, strengthen, and comfort the new arrivals.

They would need every heavenly blessing available to survive the years ahead.

* * *

The weary troop drew away from the dark forest hurriedly, despite their injuries and fatigue. The slaves filled the center of the company, while the soldiers took the front and rear, marching doggedly. Very few mounted Romans remained, but the few that did regulated the sides of the group, pacing on their fidgety horses up and down the ranks to keep the slaves in check. This drill was not necessary however; the once stubborn and defiant slaves had no fire left to even think of escape—all they currently wanted was to rest and be warm. Their sleepless night of blood, struggle, and forced travel through the eerie forest had taken its toll.

Two hours into their resumed trek, the weather that had scourged them began to give way to a pale grey morning. The wind, though still strong, was no longer aggressive and opposing, merely rippling through the scrubby brown grass and sallow patches of trees that stretched around them for miles. The gusts tousled Gareth's dark hair as he sat astride his horse lost in thought. Although usually a determined optimist, he now rode in dark silence; he was exhausted. _And_ his brother had an arrow in his shoulder. _And_ they had been ambushed by the Woad demons _and_ taken casualties, many of whom were his comrades. _And—_perhaps worst of all_—_ they were on their way to the northernmost stronghold of the Roman Empire, where they would either complete their years of service or die trying. Hadrian's Wall was the place Rome sent her least favorite soldiers to die.

Staring out at the bitter terrain, he decided that the land must be cursed. Why else would it be so barren? Why else so luckless? Why else would they have been attacked by the men of Woad? Why else would—

"_Tá brón orm, __A dheartháir."_

Snapping out of his reverie, Gareth looked over at his elder brother. Propping himself up on his good arm, Gawain leaned on Gringolet's strong neck for support and growled the words again:

"_Gareth, tá brón orm."_ His face was utterly pale.

_Why the hell is he apologizing?_

Confused, Gareth leaned over and clapped a falsely reassuring hand on his wounded brother's knee.

"Hush, Cuchulainn. Don't speak, aye?" he murmured, glancing cautiously back in Falco's direction. "He has it out for us, that one. So keep your wits sharp and your mouth shut, lad, for he wishes us both dead."

Gawain set his jaw stubbornly, but when Gareth glared warningly at him, he grudgingly switched his speech over into the Latin tongue.

"I'm sorry, Brother," the Lion quietly repeated, "So sorry that we are here in this—this—this Hell. I should have found some way to…"

But here Gareth interrupted him in a low, urgent voice. "…Gawain, enough—enough, Brother! D'you really believe that all _this_,"here Gareth jerked his head at the company behind them. "Or _this_,_" _he continued, lifting his bound hands, "or even that—that pointed piece o'wood in your shoulder—d'you believe any of it is _your fault_? Well, Cuchulainn, I've got a right fair bit 'o news for you: the fault is _not _yours. Don't you ever be thinkin' otherwise either. Gods, man, _look at yourself_. You have done all you can."

Gareth couldn't figure if his brother was convinced or not, but regardless, he knew Gawain had temporarily lost any taste for argument. The wounded man had turned his face away, and was now resting his brow on Gringolet's mane, and did not respond to his brother's words. Gareth attributed Gawain's silence to his unattended arrow wound, but knew the man's mind was still in turmoil and needed further reassurance.

He glanced briefly back and saw that Falco was still paying them no heed, probably unable to hear them over the noise of his men marching. Turning back to Gawain, the dark MacLaughlin resumed speaking in a low voice. "Come now, man. Any fool can see you've done all you can to prevent everything from a' happening this way; ever since they bundled us up smartlike on that damned boat from Éire, you've been a' giving these Sassenachs nought but trouble. You've been degraded, whipped, threatened, and shot—and still, you stand and fight right alongside me. So don't you even begin to be a'thinkin you've somehow failed me, Sunshine, or any of our comrades. Come, Brother, don't be—"

"—Gareth, shut your mouth and look." Interrupted Tristan, who until now had rode in mute silence.

Gareth glared over Gawain's back to the scout, and was opening his mouth to retort when he saw what the scout was pointing at.

His face went slack when he saw it.

_The Wall of Hadrian._

_

* * *

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

* * *

Nine feet thick _at a minimum_, twenty feet tall, and seventy-three miles long, Hadrian's Wall was the largest man made structure Gareth had ever seen. _By Danu's Rain, it was massive!_

He looked in disbelief over at Tristan, who returned his gaze with a flat indifference that smacked of amusement. The scout then turned his fierce, hooded eyes ahead and scanned the horizon. He inhaled slowly, scenting the wind as it rolled towards them from across the plain.

"How far are we from the Fort?" asked Gareth, staring breathlessly at the distant wall.

"One hou—no. I estimate about..." the Scout began, but trailed off mid-sentence. He smelled the air again, and twisted in his saddle to see the company behind them. He turned to the northeast again and then spoke.

"…about seventy-two minutes."

Amused by Tristan's obsessively accurate prediction, and oddly encouraged by the knowledge that they were near their destination, Gareth grinned at the Scout and sat up straighter in the saddle.

"Well then, Sunshine," he grinned, "let us see if we can make it in seventy-one."

* * *

**A/N:**

Hopefully, this will at least put a Band-Aid on the massive wound I gave you when I left the story to rot for a year.

More to come.

Worry not, my people, I shall not forsake thee!

Read.

Review.

And keep an eye out for the next chapter, which is currently in progress.


	11. Deliverance by Denarii

**I found this new thing called "Spare Time"—ever heard of it? Its fantastic stuff. It enables you to do things you thought were impossible, like write a chapter of a long-neglected story.**

**I am currently looking for more of it—it is rare treasure on a college campus.**

**

* * *

**

_ "Men must be governed"_

-Jack Aubrey,_Master and Commander_

_

* * *

_

Standing in line at full attention, the Lincoln troop waited in the bleak grey dawn for Artorius. They had been standing that way for three hours.

Heaving one of his throaty sighs, Lancelot glowered from under his heavy brows at the two distant figures on the battlements.

"Does it honestly take the man this long to brief a captain?" he said to the man at his right.

"Patience, Lance," answered Bedevere in a low voice, keeping his scarred face to the front.

On the other side of Bedevere, Bors chuckled. "Don't go arskin' 'im to have patience," he snickered, "He doesn't got any!"

Lancelot rolled his eyes at Bors' barely concealed mirth and continued. "And why should we have patience for Roman fools, hmm? Why should we take orders from—"

"—Hsst!" Bedevere whispered, cutting his eyes warningly towards the officer at the end of the line, "they could hear y—"

Bors leaned over cheekily and abruptly cut Bedevere off mid-sentence: "—Now, don't interrupt poor Lancelot; t'ain't polite. Oiy!" Dagonet roughly jammed his left elbow into Bors' shoulder, warning his tribesman to shut his mouth. After all, they were under orders to remain at full attention. Lancelot resumed speaking.

"I don't give damn what they hear!" He spat. "These arrogant—"

"—keep your voice down!"

"Or what? Those two Romans will come down and bellow orders at us?"

"Exactly," murmered Bedevere.

Lancelot smiled to himself, turning his eyes to the front.

"Isn't that what we have been waiting for these past hours? Or were you expecting them to offer us warm breakfast?" he asked in a quiet, languid tone. Bors barked out a laugh again.

Bedevere slowly turned his head to Lancelot and glared at him. The corner of Lancelot's mouth twitched as he kept his eyes fixed ahead. Bedevere's scarred face burst into a broad smile as he choked back laughter. Lancelot snorted and bit his cheeks to hold back a smirk.

"honestly, they claim to be enlightened, yet here we are—"

"—SILENCE IN THE RANKS!" ordered the officer down the line. With alacrity, they straightened their backs and fixed their eyes ahead and kept their mouths shut, doing everything they could to avoid catching oneanothers' glances and laugh again.

Silence was restored and they waited at full attention for the Romans to come down and share their _enlightenment_ with them.

* * *

Meanwhile on the wall of the fort, Artorius and Fabian were far from laughing. They stood facing southward, two snapping scarlet capes framed by a grey dawn. The fort walls stood high enough that they could not be overheard, which was fortunate because their argument was becoming increasingly heated.

"Sir," glowered Artorius, "I do understand the value of discipline. And patience. But I also understand the value of time, which we are currently squandering by forcing these valuable men to do nothing but stand completely still as the morning wastes away."

Fabian continued looking southward with his narrow gaze, speaking not a word. The argument was fairly one sided.

Artorius sighed and turned his green eyes angrily back to the terrain. After a moment to calm himself, he spoke again. "General, why do you do this to them? Just let me drill with them, teach them their duties, show them how to be soldiers of the Wall." He turned to Fabian again. "You have spent week upon week upon week waiting for these men to arrive," Artorius' voice was quickly approaching shouting. "and now that you have them, you make them stand down there like new recruits FOR NO REASON! WE ARE DEFENDING THE FARTHEST REACHES OF THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE WITH NOUGHT BUT HOPE AND PRAYER! AND NOW THAT WE FINALLY HAVE GOOD MEN TO DEFEND THIS DISMAL LAND, YOU MAKE THEM STAND IN THE MUD LIKE PILLARS!"

He stopped to breathe for a moment. _Why is there such boldness and anger within me? _He wondered at himself. He did not know, but it felt good to rant at his superior officer. _But I cannot continue this insubordinate manner. I shall be stripped of my rank; then what shall become of my—the men?_

As he pondered this, Fabian finally stirred from his forceful silence.

"Artorius, Artorius…" he gently chided, still staring out at the southern horizon. "who commands this fort?"

"You do, sir." Artorius answered cautiously.

"_Certes_. This is true. Why is that, do you think?"

"Because you are an experienced leader, my lord" lied Artorius. _Because you are a scheming, power-hungry brother of a rich bishop._

"Aha! You see?" he exclaimed with worrying patience and tranquility. "That means I know how to govern men, and do this for a purpose. Why do you_ think _I do this?"

Artorius waited in tense silence, expecting Fabian's masquerade of pleasantry to evaporate at any moment. It soon did, but surprisingly the man's brutish anger was not directed at him.

"Use your damned eyes, man!" he snarled between his teeth. "Look. At. The. _Fools_."

Artorius cast his gaze down at them and looked questioningly back to Fabian.

"Do you see them?" The General spat, "THEY HAVE NO ARMOR! Do they look like your so-called '_Good men_' here to defend the '_farthest reaches of the Holy Roman Empire' _? Defend? DEFEND?" Fabian's jaw worked furiously as he whirled to face Artorius. "Those southern soldierlings couldn't defend an empty bird's nest in this state! How am I expected to outfit Sarmatians who don't even have money for their own gear?"

Artorius closed his eyes. This was all a punishment about not having Roman armor?

Lancelot had told him on their journey that the Romans at the Lincoln fort had taken the Sarmatian's gear from them just before sending them out to meet him. He said the officers told them that the Empire had a great need for metal, and—since all men sent to Hadrian's wall were nought but meat for the Picts to devour anyways—it seemed a shame to waste the metal by letting it rust in some Celtic village north of the wall. This was madness because not only did it leave the men unprotected, but it also took what was theirs by right; every soldier in the Roman army was issued both a gear and mess kit, which were taken out of his wages to pay for.

_And now they are being punished for not having them. A Roman took it away, and now a Roman expects them to have it._

Down below, he distantly heard an officer bark "_Silence in the ranks!_"

_The men are getting restless, _he thought. _Rightfully so._

He had a sudden idea. "Sir," he said, "I have a proposal."

"Well then stop acting like a damn Republican politician and tell me."

"Hire out a smith to prepare the required armor, and—"

Fabian spluttered, but Artorius continued. "—And let the payment come from my earnings."

He swallowed, knowing the gravity of what he had just said. _O Farewell, my many denarii. I shall miss your shining golden faces in the long months to come._

Fabian looked at Artorius keenly, tilting his head to the right in the way hounds sometimes do when confused. A cold smile played across his lips.

"And what do you want in return?" he responded. "My horse? My rank? My wench? I tell you now that you may have none of these. They're mine alone." He paused for a moment. "Except for the wench; she snores and stinks of cattle. Hah!"

Artorius looked at him evenly. Fabian's leering face returned to its keen expression again.

"Tell me, Artorius. This offer cannot possibly stand alone: what do you want in return?"

Although angry, hateful and cruel, Marcus Fabian had an excellent head for business, and knew an opportunity when he saw one.

"What I want, General," Artorius said slowly, "is for you to put these Sarmatians under my command, and mine only. Not to Falco. Not to Caradoc. They would answer to you through me."

Fabian looked at him with a furrowed brow. "and what would you do with these soldiers? Usurp my authority and claim this fort as your own? Do not think me stupid, Castus."

"And do not think me stupid either, General." Artorius responded evenly. "I would train these men to excel the expectations of the Roman army and create a division of unstoppable determination and dauntless resolve." Seeing Fabian's doubtful expression, he struck the final blow. "Besides, Sir, you need a division for the dangerous missions. Losing those men down there will do you no great harm. And…I know do not overly favor me sir. Yet if we succeed, your objectives will still be reached without losing any…_true_ Roman men." _Take the bait, you cold monster._

Fabian's cold smile returned.

"Very well. Those Sarmatians are yours for command." He pointed down at the slaves below. "They answer to you, who in turn answers to me. You will undertake whatever I order you. But…should they prove to be lesser than Falco, Caradoc, or Kaius' troops, I shall see to it that they are attached to a more competent commander. Am I understood?"

"_Certes_, General."

"Then find a smithy and set him to work."

Artorius saluted and turned to go. But then he halted, for he heard the call from the watchman:

"My lord! Riders approaching, Sir!"

"Riders?" Fabian repeated rushing over to where the watchman stood pointing with his spear point. "Indeed my lord, look to the western south—yes there, Sir! There seems to be many of them my lord, most on foot."

Fabian squinted. "Hah!" he barked, "There are Romans among them! It is Falco returning with those barbarians from Hibernia at last!"

He turned on his heel, striding purposefully towards the stone steps to the ground. As he passed Artorius, he paused:

"Castus, ready your men. Those creatures are dangerous and need restraining. Time to prove the quality of your troops."

Artorius felt a shudder go down his spine.

_My troops._

He rushed down the steps, shouting orders to open the gate and ready a rearguard if necessary.

The survivors of Hibernia had finally reached the fort.

* * *

**A/N **

**You know, I kept saying "Oh, next chapter everyone will be in the same place"**

**But then I realized I needed Arthur—oops. I mean, Artorius—to make his sales pitch before things got to hectic and nuanced. I also wanted to spend a little more time with Bors, Lancelot, and Bedevere—so I could get to know them a bit better before all Hibernia breaks loose at the fort.**

**It still bothers me that I put a Roman fort in Ireland for this story, but hey—if Jerry Bruckheimer gets to put a Roman villa WAY north of Hadrian's wall in his movie, then I can bloody well put a fort on the east coast of Ireland in my story. Believe me, it is too good to pass up. Just you wait.**

**And to all my fellow Gawain fans: REJOICE! THE ANGRY INJURED GAWAIN IS ABOUT TO GET ALL PATCHED UP AND BACK TO HIS LEONINE SELF. Just thought you might like to hear that. **


End file.
